A/N: Wrote a lot of this chapter to Dance of the Druids from the Outlander season 1 soundtrack. Also White Roses of Scotland from the season 2 soundtrack.
At some point or another, the spirit that James had procured knocked him clean out. He could not recall when, only that he spent the time preceding that torn between staring at the necklace until the torment of it was too much, and then closing his eyes until he could no longer cope with the images it dragged forth - good and bad both. It seemed, though, that there came a point where he did close his eyes and oblivion was finally kind enough to take over.
When he next came to, slender fingers were combing themselves gently through his hair and the weight of the world slipped easily from James' shoulders. It had not been real. Of course it hadn't - it could not have been.
"I had the worst nightmare," he rasped.
He knew he'd sworn not to speak of it during the nightmare, but now that he knew it to have been false, they might be able to laugh at it. He'd tell Theodora, she'd rattle off one of her jokes, and all would be well.
"It's now that you're dreaming, I'm afraid," replied a female voice that was not Theodora's.
Eyes flying open, James rolled away from whoever it was that had been weaving her fingers through his hair and tried to gain his bearings as quickly as possible. He hadn't been in a bed at all, but lying on a forest floor, and the fingers that had been combing through his hair were not Theodora's. He was left to reckon with two things at once - noting that his clothing was still damp, and the necklace still tangled among his fingers. The first was that it had not been a nightmare. It was real. And that alone sent a new, agonising wave of fresh grief through him.
The second was the question of who this woman was. But that was solved much more quickly, and leagues more easily, than the first.
"Queen Achtland," he greeted stonily.
She smiled at him, and James did not return it. And not just because he no longer thought himself capable. The woman, if she could truly be called such, was beautiful - but even as he thought so, it didn't quite register in his mind as a compliment. There was something unsettling about her, he could see so already, and it was emphasised when she moved. Her manner made it appear that she should not be able to do so, like a statue. It was a cold beauty. Remote.
"I had wondered if we might ever meet, James Norrington," she said.
"So that you might forsake me as you did Theodora?"
Her lips stretched into another one of those smiles. It took all he had not to scream at her to stop.
"I can see why she likes you so," she said silkily.
"Liked," he corrected bitterly, his voice roughening into a snarl "Loved. Misguidedly, as it turns out, as I could not help her in the end. Nor did you bother to."
"I will always help those who endeavour to help themselves first."
"You failed her."
"Are you talking to me, or to yourself?" she asked sharply and then sighed, closing her eyes and taking a visible moment to school her temper "That was unworthy - although a shred of respect would not go amiss."
"Why did you bring me here?"
"For an introduction."
"And now it's been made. Return me, I've no desire to speak with you."
The woman - goddess, being, witch, creature, whichever - smirked slightly and then lifted a heavily bejewelled hand. At first he thought she meant to smite him, or some other such nonsense. He barely flinched, safe for when he realised that if she did, he could not enact any kind of revenge on the wretch that still shuffled about Jones ship.
But it was less of an action than it was a gesture, which James only realised when her eyes flickered to something behind him. Frowning, he turned slowly on his heel, and then he fell silent. He had never met the man who stood there, hulking and heavily tattooed arms folded and his expression unreadable, but he knew who he was. He'd seen the photograph. And even if he hadn't, the man had the same eyes as his daughter.
"...Mr Byrne," he greeted heavily.
Did he know what had just happened? It was difficult to say. Although that very likely meant that he did not know. Grief was seldom subtle, especially when it was that of a parent. Nor did he seem confused, though, which suggested he knew something. It would be salt packed into an open wound if Achtland had brought James here to break the news to Theodora's father immediately after losing her. But if anybody was to tell him, James supposed it should be him. He'd been there. Seen it. Caused it.
His father-by-law wore all black, his garb still strange to James for the limited exposure he'd had to Theodora's clothing from her homeland. His trousers were of a material he'd never seen before, his boots bulky and worn, and his shirt was strange - form-fitting, with sleeves that emphasised the scale of his muscles and ended halfway down his biceps. Even his hair, cropped short, and his beard which was only slightly longer were both black, although streaked with grey. Had James still been concerned with such things, he'd view him as having the look of a man he very much did not want to upset. That, though, was already a certainty. And he cared not for himself.
After spending a good long time taking the measure of him, a process which James endured silently, albeit with difficulty, thanks to the striking resemblance his eyes bore to Theodora's. Finally, the man gave a heavy sigh and dropped his arms to his sides, striding towards him with an ease and borderline predatory grace that did not befit his burly form. When he lifted his hand, also riddled with tattoos, for James to shake, he found himself staring at it stupidly for a few moments before he came to his senses and accepted it. He had a firm grip, verging on painful, but James returned it firmly. Although not as firmly as he would have had he not been so shocked.
"You're Theodora's man," he greeted.
James did not have to voice the confusion that immediately rose to his face before Mr Byrne was supplying an answer.
"She shows me things," he gave a grim nod in Achtland's direction, who watched the exchange with undisguised interest, her chin resting on her fist "Bits and pieces. I watched the wedding, when it happened - I think, at least. Saw enough to know what happened to my daughter, even if it still doesn't make a bloody lick of sense to me."
"What happened to…" James trailed off "So. You know then. About what happened on this night."
Mr Byrne grimaced, but James frowned at that reaction. It was so understated. Such an underreaction. He knew of how close Theodora was to her father. Even if he'd been separated from her for this long, dead to her for all intents and purposes, he could not have had so little of a reaction.
"You've done right by her, lad. I'll give you that," he sighed "Wasn't too fond of ye in the beginning, I'm not afraid to tell you so, but you've proved me wrong. I'm not afraid to tell you that, either."
How long had it been since anybody had called him lad? Sparrow may have, but that was to annoy him. Everything Sparrow did was to annoy him. This was in earnest - meant with warmth. But he couldn't accept it. Not the sentiment, at least. On any other day in the past, he'd have been overjoyed to hear such words - and to know that Theodora's father had still been with her in some way. All that stuck out to him now was the fact that she would never know it.
"I'd like to get to know you, but I've no clue how long we have," he shot a look to Achtland, and James felt a fleeting murmur of smugness that the man seemed to hold her in the same distaste as he did "But from what I have seen, I'm glad she has you."
If the weight of the man's words hadn't been readily apparent to James, the strain in his neck and the clench of his jaw gave away the emotion he held back. It added to the weight James felt, swallowing down a lump in his own throat as he tried to keep the tremor from his voice.
"Forgive me, sir, but I fear you don't recognise the gravity of what happened tonight."
"I do know - I saw."
"Well then you know that Theodora is…such a wound…you're a military man yourself, you must know that such an injury means death," he realised then that maybe the discrepancy in time played a factor and added "For us, it does. We haven't the medicinal capabilities to…not with something like that…"
"I know that, too," Mr Byrne replied with a flicker of visible impatience "It's the same for us, but she's not dead. Believe you me, my Theo's alive."
James stared - hope he dared not feel slowly rising in his chest, beyond his control "Have you…have you seen…?"
"No," he shook his head, and the hope was gone "She won't show me. But I know it, lad. I knew it when she first disappeared, and I know it now."
Mr Byrne did not seem a fanciful man, but he was only human. How many parents had he been burdened with the responsibility of informing of the death of their sons while out at sea? How many of those parents had insisted that they had survived in some way - that they were out there now, adrift, waiting and in need of a search party? Too many to mention. Instinct was a powerful thing. As was wishful thinking.
But he had to know. Either way, he had to know - and he had at his disposal one way of finding out, here and now.
"Show me Theodora," he rounded on Achtland "Show me her."
If she had not shown Theodora's father, perhaps she would show him. She'd contrived to bring the two of them together, after all, surely she would feel…she would feel some sort of responsibility. An affinity, if nothing else.
"You shall do well to address me with more respect," she warned softly.
"Please," he said without hesitation "Please show her to me. I must know. I must, or else I shall go mad."
Queen Achtland beheld him for some time then - until he thought he'd have to get down on his knees and plead. But then, finally, she waved a long-fingered hand in a sweeping motion towards the fire. James turned, and he stared into the flames without needing to be instructed to do so, dropping to his knees so he was at eye-level with the fire to give him the best possible view. So that there could be no doubt. And as he did, he steeled himself. He knew what he'd asked for, and he knew not to trust this so-called goddess. If heeding his demands to see his wife meant showing him her body, bereft of life, he knew that she would do so. But at least then he might know. Then he would no longer be subjected to the sharp rise and falls of hope and then grief renewed - doubled.
Theodora's father showed keen interest in the flames, too, striding to stand at his side and clapping a fatherly hand down onto his shoulder as they stared, the licks of fire swirling upwards until they formed a circle that could almost be a mirror. If it was a mirror, though, it only reflected darkness. James felt sick at the sight of nothing but blackness, his first thought being that he could very well be peering into the bottom of the ocean. Why should they bother giving her anything that resembled a proper burial? She'd simply be dropped overboard like useless cargo.
It was not the first time that such a thought had occurred to him, but it cut into him no more bluntly for how many times he'd been plagued by the prospect. Now all the more, for how he feared to see it. But then he would know.
The first image that blew up into the picture was one that had his heart sinking once he realised what he was looking at - the stern of the Dutchman. Rather than casting itself downwards to afford him a view of his wife's body, though, it swerved left until it showed two figures. That of himself, and that of Elizabeth. His heart sank. Had he been brought here to bear witness to his failure a second time?
"Do not go to Shipwreck Cove," he watched himself say to Elizabeth "Beckett knows of the meeting of the Brethren. I fear there may be a traitor among them."
James' brow furrowed in confusion. He…had not said that. In the image, Elizabeth watched him carefully before her features shifted to disdain, stepping forward so she could speak in a voice riddled with steel.
"It's too late to earn my forgiveness."
This version of himself seemed offended by her words, his face intent as he replied insistently.
"I had nothing to do with your father's death," he paused and then looked away "But that does not absolve me of my other sins."
The words had James - the real James, as he knelt here now before the fire - stilling, as he realised what he was being shown.
Disbelief rose within him as he peered at the image more intently. When Theodora said that she'd seen the events - plays, she'd called them, albeit eventually admitting that it was simply the closest thing she could compare it to that he would understand. And he appreciated that now, too, for he knew that no amount of description would have him picturing this.
The shame was clear on this false-James face - as though he could hardly bear to even look at Elizabeth whose scowl softened as she watched her crewmates move quickly across the rope tied above.
"Come with us," she said.
False-James looked at her in surprise, but he didn't seem cheered by the offer. Astonished, but still solemn.
"James, come with me," Elizabeth repeated, and when she looked back to him there were tears in her eyes.
A softness began to sink into the face of his alternate counterpart - and though James could imagine why, knowing what his feelings were two years ago, it still made his own heart sink to witness. He was saved from hearing what response he would have given by a new voice calling across the vision, garbled and somewhat distant.
"Who goes there?!"
The reaction was immediate, false-James and Elizabeth starting while he pushed her behind him, in the direction of the rope as he drew his sword.
"Go," he ordered, looking up at the threat that lay above them "I will follow."
Elizabeth was looking up at him, though, and not at the source of the voice.
"You're lying," her distress was clear in her dark eyes as they widened.
This iteration of himself turned to regard her softly, resignation marked in his features.
"Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth…but never joined."
James could only sit there, amongst the leaves, and watch himself lower his head and kiss Elizabeth softly. This was what Theodora had seen. And it was what Theodora had thought she'd seen.
He was only half aware of what followed. Of Bootstrap's appearance and his mad ramblings. Of his own inability to calm the man, of his severing the rope so that Elizabeth could not come back to help him - although he could not help but watch as the madman took up a wooden spar and impaled him clean through with it, seeing nothing other than his wife in his place even as Elizabeth screaming his name from the water. Even moreso, perhaps, thanks to the fact that in reality he'd been relegated to her position, screaming Theodora's name up at the Dutchman.
It was the worst thing Achtland could have shown him. Second worst, he quickly corrected himself. For the only corpse that he'd seen was his own, before the image faded to black - although the flames did not return to their prior ordinary state. Not only did he now know the full extent of Theodora's sacrifice, did he know what had plagued her in all this time they'd known one another. But now he also knew what she thought she'd walked into in those final moments.
It would have been difficult to explain ordinarily, but not impossible. In the moment he'd thought that if he could just get her to look at him, then he might get her to listen to him, and then she would understand if only he managed to drag her from her own mind long enough for her to do so. He thought he was fighting nothing but the misguided feelings she'd known him to have when they'd first met - feelings that were years old and long dead. Feelings that no longer mattered. Ghosts, nothing more. They'd fought worse than that together.
Now he knew better. Now he knew that she thought she'd been presented with very firm, very real proof that her presence here had not made a difference. Not as far as Elizabeth was concerned, and maybe even not as far as his fate was concerned. That was what had been on her face, other than the heartache - dread. Fear.
And despite how he wanted to, he couldn't even summon any great feelings of righteousness in response to it. Because had the shoe been on the other foot, and this matter concerned she and Turner - no, she and Sparrow - rather than himself and Elizabeth, he might have shed a tear, too, upon thinking he'd just witnessed this play become a reality. He may have doubted, given time, but that initial shock would be a sore one. And Theodora had not been granted the time it would take for doubt to set in.
As he sat there on the ground, Theodora's father lowered himself to his knees, his gaze fixed on the flames, too.
"Are ye alright?" he asked solemnly.
"Have you…" James paused to clear his throat "Have you seen this? This…mythical version of events?"
"Aye, most have," he sighed "Even before this, I'd seen them all plenty of times. Theo loved 'em as a girl - took her to the cinema to see them when they came out. After the first few times I was brought here, I watched them again a lot. First to get a proper measure of you, once I started believing it was all real, then because I was hoping maybe she'd turn up in 'em. Sounds daft, I know, but so does all of this, so I thought that…maybe..."
"Did she? Ever appear…?"
"Nah. Not at all."
"I'm sorry."
Mr Byrne sighed heavily, the corners of his lips downturned as he nodded - and then he jerked his head in the direction of the flames. For they were showing signs of something more once again. James braced himself.
When the black gave way to colour - first murky and blurred, before growing steadily more vivid - he could barely breathe at all, until he frowned in confusion. It was…daylight. She was showing them daylight. It could not be Theodora, then, for it was still night in their world, unless he'd been here for so long that morning was already upon them. It was certainly possible, and if so it would hardly be the strangest thing about this gathering.
As the image was brought into focus, though, his confusion only grew. He wasn't looking at Jones' ship - nor any ship at all, and there was no water in sight. Whatever she was showing him, it couldn't be Theodora. Or so he'd thought. And then she stepped into the line of sight that this strange window offered. It was her, but it wasn't. Not his wife as she currently was - just slightly younger, without any of the pinched worry that had taken up her features as of late, and in strange clothing.
This was her in the past, he realised that quickly enough. Or the future, technically speaking. In the world from which she'd hailed, before…before everything. Annoyance threatened to rise within him when he realised that Achtland had not fulfilled his request in the way he'd intended, but he could not argue. Argue necessitated turning around, shifting his attention, talking. And all of that detracted from what could very well be his last sight of his wife. He didn't even have a portrait of her. Jones had the photograph, and he'd throttle the beast with his bare hands to get them back, but for now he would watch. As if he could stop himself.
After a moment he realised he recognised her clothing, strange as it was - the blue legless breeches that would have been irreparably scandalous in his own time, the heavy black boots that she still clung to like they were made of solid gold, along with a strange shirt that looked to be made of plaid like that which the Scots wore. He recognised that, too, although he'd seen it far less - it had been draped over her as she floated adrift, and lost in the skirmish when they'd pulled her out of the water and into the skiff. The heart-shaped pendant glinted in the dip between her collarbones, catching the stray rays of light that managed to worm their way between densely packed trees.
This was from the day they met. Or at least the day that she left her world. And while he did feel sad at seeing how much lighter she looked here, he could not convince even just himself that she looked happier. Admittedly, here expression there was leagues happier than the worst moments he'd bore witness to in person - during his brief engagement to Elizabeth, her homesickness, anything and everything that involved Cutler fucking Beckett, and…when he'd last seen her. On the stern of the Dutchman.
But, James noted, with something that was almost a vague echo of comfort, nor was it anything close to how happy he'd seen her. It wasn't a fair comparison - her mood on a solitary walk compared to how she'd been at their wedding - but it still reassured him in some strange way. It was something he could grasp onto.
She stared out at them unseeingly, frowning at something he could not see, like it was located somewhere over his shoulder. Hesitating, she let loose a quiet sigh and then slipped the knapsack she'd toted down her arm. Inspecting the ground for a few moments, a thoughtful frown on her face, she lowered the pack to rest at the base of a tree, and then turned back to what she'd been staring at before.
The scope of the vision shifted then, drifting until it did show what she was looking at - a stone circle. Multiple stone circles, it appeared, one within the other, all overgrown, eroded in places, and coated in moss. She'd told him of this before, and of the terrible buzzing that had taken root in her mind and throughout her body as she approached, but he could not hear it. All he could hear was the quickening of her breath as she slowly lowered herself down to kneel before the outermost circle, one hand seeking purchase in the overgrown forest floor by her side.
During this process she'd paled, her eyes becoming hazy - the same sort of confusion on her face that James had seen from men and women alike when overcome by the humidity and lack of air in a particularly packed ballroom. Then, a moment later, she was lifting that same hand, outstretching it towards the nearest rock, her fingers trembling, the gold paint on her fingernails glittering with every tremor. An idea - a desperate idea - flitted across his mind, and he was acting on it before he'd even made up his mind to do so.
"Theodora!" he called.
"She won't hear, she never doe-" her father began to say, and then stopped dead.
Because she had heard. Her hand did not drop, but it froze in the air and her head turned, looking around for the source of the voice.
"Theodora!" he called again, more loudly "Theodora, turn back! Turn back! Don't-"
He reached into the flames as though he might be able to reach through and grab her, but he only received a burn to the side of his hand for his efforts.
A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, pulling him back - at first he believed it to belong to Mr Byrne, but then Achtland pushed her way before him and gave yet another almost incidental gesture of her hand. Theodora's hand twitched forward, barely half a centimetre, but that was all it took. Her fingertips brushed the stone, and she vanished, leaving nothing but birdsong and the rustle of leaves in her wake.
"What have you done?" James demanded, not for the first time that night "I could have stopped her! I could have saved her! She never would have-"
"She already did," Queen Achtland replied impassively.
Before he could spit out the ire blazing within him in response to that - in response to this entity's entire existence - the world gave way to black.
A/N: "It's all the drama, Mick, I just love it!" - Achtland, probably. (And me. A little bit. A lot. Except for when I got to my outline for this chapter and remembered that I'd have to watch the death scene one more fucking time for this chapter. Oof. I swear this movie is tied with Boromir's death in LOTR for scenes I skip 95% of the time.)
I came so close to ending the previous chapter with a bit of the first part of this one - ending at the point where James realise he's meeting Theo's dad. Then I decided it would be too cruel. See, I can be reasonable. Sometimes. This is another one that originally would have been a bigger chapter, combined with the first scene of the next chapter, but I think it's a wee bit neater on it's own as one big scene.
Oh, and gratitude to Gan Ainm on AO3 for pointing out to me that in the original movies it's not a sword that Bootstrap stabs James with, but actually a wooden spar. I never noticed that detail! I think in this timeline the sword still makes sense - if he has a knife, I think he could feasibly have a sword - but I made sure to get it right in this chapter where he sees what could have been!
Just as a fun closing fact, my "historical research for dumb throwaway lines" for this chapter led me to find out we only started referring to shorts as shorts fairly recently - discovered when I was trying to work out what the hell James might call Theo's denim shorts. Before that they'd be knickerbockers (which I could never have in a scene with a straight face), but even that is a bit too modern for this time period, having been coined in the mid-1800s.
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